Monday, 1 September 2014

The unexpected death of Robin Williams got me thinking – once again – just how tragic depression really is.

It's frustrating that it takes a celebrity suicide to open our eyes and get us talking.

It fills the heads of its victims with crippling despair,
distorted thoughts of self-hate, even the most intelligent, seemingly
(outwardly) fulfilled sufferers can’t ignore. Oftentimes it targets our
society’s most sensible, talented, passionate creators and producers of
society. And worst of all, it's a tragically invisible disability many sufferers can't talk about.

In the Facebook/Twitter/Instagram generation
of faux happiness, we’re conditioned en mass not to talk about our bad days,
because heaven forbid we be the party buzz-kill.

Well that’s too bad, because it’s my party and I’ll cry if I
want to.

Yes, if you haven’t guessed it already, I very much suffer
from bouts of depression likely fueled by bad genetics and a shitty childhood and
a few poor life choices. And I want to get this off my chest if I’m going to understand
and hopefully beat it.

Psychiatrists still don't fully understand the causes of depression, so here's my two cents.

First off, a tiny confession. I almost published a version
of this blog post about a year ago, after the tragic overdose of Glee star Cory Monteith. Ostensibly this
talent had the life: as the star of a popular show with a loving girlfriend and
a hopeful future. But that’s the picture that’s always painted – especially
when you have agents, managers and publicists operating the paintbrush.

But then of course I got cold feet. I can’t remember why. I probably
got chicken-shit after my mood took an upswing. I certainly didn’t want to
shatter the illusion people may have that I’m totally fun and confident, that I’m actually somewhere on the
spectrum, bordering on the edge. Eek. Don’t invite that Negative Nancy to the
party.

A year later the news of Robin Williams’ death arrived
around the same time I’d sunk to an oppressive low of self-defeating thoughts. Then
I watched a Ted Talk about the Power of Vulnerability by author and leading
social worker Brené Brown. I slurped
up her Kool-aid it finally dawned on me. If I truly wanted to beat this, I’d
need to open up and be damn honest about even this kind deep, dark shit if I
wanted to see positive change.

Brené Brown's Power of Vulnerability in a Coles Notes Nutshell

Maybe you’re thinking: Wow, how more self-centred and
self-indulgent can a narcissist get? A celebrity figurehead dies tragically and
somehow he once again finds a way to relate it back to himself? Here's the thing, I routinely struggle with seemingly irrational bouts of
negative thinking, and I very much work in the TV / film wheelhouse, a bumpy
road of feast or famine where uncertain circumstances only trigger or
exacerbate the symptoms. Maybe it’s just my hyperbolic nature, but
their deaths struck a major chord.

I knew something might be up when I finally started to get
my act together – and I’d still manage to spiral into crushing pits of despair.
Survival of the Fabulous gets green-lit but that must be a fluke. I got into the CFC Writing Program, the
third time applying, I’d still manage to convince myself that I must be a
fraud, they’ll figure it out soon enough. Even when I ostensibly attained my
personal Holy Grail – an attractive, wholehearted guy who
actually liked me back – I’d still
have thoughts that it’s an illusion, he doesn’t really like me, I’m still
unlovable – and surprise, surprise, cue the downward spiral into Depression
Alley.

Recently an investigation of my family tree for my
documentary revealed an alarming, interesting find. Multiple cases of depression and more horrifyinglysuicide. My uncle jumped from a high
rise about a decade ago. Two great aunts killed themselves via rat poison and
shotgun. Apparently another lumberjack actually felled a tree so it would
intentionally crush him (okay that one might be an urban legend).

All those black and white portraits are untimely deaths.

It just so happens depression, alcoholism and drug addiction have reared their ugly heads all over both sides of my immediate family, so it’s certainly hereditary to some degree, so are my demons naturally going to grow up into all-consuming, suicidal Devils?

I sometimes wonder if contemplating the contemplation of
suicide even counts. It’s true I probably am
too much a drama queen to go out in a quiet fashion. I mean at the very least
I’d want to recreate a kill sequence from my favorite Final Destination and make a trashy posthumous reality show out of
it.

I used to think I’d dodged the addiction
bullet. I’d never smoked a cigarette in my life. I didn’t start drinking until
well into university and I’ve never used it to dull the pain. Maybe my family
of felons and addicts acted as reverse role models – and saved me from a
predestined path of self-destruction.

But let’s call a spade a spade. I may not be addicted to
booze or blow, but I certainly do have an addiction for validation, which I’ve chronicled extensively on this blog – and will
recap more in part two of this uber-fun depression series, where I try to get
to the bottom of why people like us suffer from depression.

Some addicts "choose" booze or blow. I prefer the Boys, Body Dysmorphia and Validation cocktail

For the longest period of denial I tried to convince myself that
I was in no way like the aforementioned Tortured
Artists of the world. I don’t go on partying binge-fests that result in
blackouts and shaving my head.

Some of my friends and family even know I have oscillating super-highs
and depressive lows. But they think there’s no cause for concern because I’m
really just an attention-seeking Drama
Queen, too shallow to raise alarm bells. I’d even convinced myself and got
really good at concealing my brooding darker side. If you only see me as a vain,
vapid pre-law school Elle Woods, that’s because the more confident,
more shallow and all-around funner Bryce is clearly more likeable than the real,
tortured deal.

It turns out this is Comedy and Depression 101, as this fantastic article by David Wong about Robin Williams illuminates why funny people kill
themselves. The seemingly obvious jist of it? Depressed people use jokes as shields to hide their abused
souls.

I’m not crying for help with this post. In fact, I was going
to keep all this to myself. Or maybe sugar coat it for a psychotherapist.

But I want to understand the nature and nurture of
depression, figure out how it manifests. Maybe even some of the readers out
there – you know, all seven of them – would find it helpful to know just how common
depression really is, and that it’s okay, in fact necessary, to be candid about
it.

Once I better understand this depression business, I’ll
formulate a strategic battle plan, so I can beat the shit out of it. The one
thing I do know is it’s life-long war, and one that would require a daily
regimen of patience, willpower and commitment.

Teaser: if I could go from Chunky to Hunky, I can slay a few pesky mental health demons.

It’s a bit terrifying that it’s 2014, and we still don’t
know the answers. Doctors prescribe anti-depressants like they’re
one-size-fits-all cure-alls and psychiatrists disagree whether we should even
take them.

But spoiler alert: I know seeking help is possible – and it very much can and does work with time. But
it’s an ongoing battle and when symptoms are their most severe, the motivation
to seek help wanes, making the vicious cycle continue and the need to talk
about it all the more important.

It truly is a tragic shame that Robin Williams and other
formidable artists like him never found their answer. But I will say thank you
for giving me the courage to speak up.